Sicko Mobb is the sound of pure potentiality. Loss and pain booling just beneath the surface from the jump, Super Saiyan Vol. 3 un-shrouds from a low-pass filter and immediately releases a shriek — a high, Mariah-register keen in the uncanny rift between human vocal and clearly synthesized sound. And this is where the mixtape plays: in the giddy, endlessly climaxing frontier where the pains of the flesh meet the impossibly, intangibly beyond nature of publicly crystallized selfhood. Memories and dreams coalesce, the spirit reignites.
TMT’s own Hydroyoga has written about how club music has slipped the physical bonds of the club itself, reemerging as an embodied viscera of the experience of actually dancing in the club. This raw, experienced superseding of context arises with SSV3, too, but rather than a listening experience that simulates losing one’s shit in the club, Super Saiyan Vol. 3 embodies the ascendant, exultant, mournful feeling of having finally made it. Remember “Citgo” off Finally Rich? Sicko Mobb is the perfect realization of that zone.
You’re in heaven, your being pops out on an endless upward spiral move, a hybrid combustion into gaseous infinite selfhood with an enhanced crystallization of Who You Are, Where You’re From and How You Come, your pain sublimating through the performance of the come-up into something hovering above all of life’s traumas and victories, trolling them, stunting on them, celebrating them, grieving them, off Xan, off lean, off loud, off the shits, off a orange flat, with the shits; you’re in the VIP section of the club with all the people you’ve ever loved and you’re leaning on each others’ shoulders like one big Transformer, in beast mode; the music is loud, so there are no voices except the one in the songs, which is the Realest and the Truest, wherein every line is a hook, every melody apart of the same eternal song, the furious buzz of Teenage Mutant Ninja harmonies encircling the body in turtle-time (let’s do karate!), the scansion enunciating the movements of the dance floor spread out before you, where your haters and your fans are, bopping furiously or nodding their heads trying not to smile, the whole FeFe reaching a faded, booted, tweaking crescendo at the unveiling of the chorus to end all choruses; you spazz on ‘em, and all of a sudden you are everyone/everywhere.
You’re Ryu in Street Fighter, Luigi in Super Smash Bros, Vegeta in Dragonball Z; you’re Kyrie, you’re Lil Trav and Lil Ceno; you’re in Jamaica, in ATL, in Out West, Chicago, in the Holy City, on 15th & Christiana; you’re a zombie on the prowl for eaters; you remember the faces of the ones you lost and what they said to you; you’re in a swamp, cooling with alligators; you’re in a foreign whip switching lanes with the windows down in the summertime, literally covered, dripping with foreign clothes, foreign diamonds, foreign hoes, foreign money, counting digits, digits in your phone; you’re in heaven, with everyone you’ve ever lost and all the trophies you’ve ever won (shoutout broski Drake) and you’re all celebrating and mourning at the same damn time, never quite clear which one takes precedent, throwing up hand-signs that most of the world will never fully understand but that your heart knows well, calling out with your lungs for a turn-up, one-time, two-times, exploding “Skeeeeyeee” through a spiral-phasing, zoneward filter; this feeling, which is an actual, physical thing, remains, even once the audio viscera have passed, embalming the memories of when we didn’t have shit and when we finally made it into the same ever-repeating cyclical melody, representing Who I Am, Where I’m From and How I Come in the fossils of the body technologic, in autotuned, circular lingo, in genre becoming all genres having devoured genre whole, in gaudy-ass Robin’s Jean and blindingly white Air Force 1s, in that moment, which lasts for an entire track on “Digits,” when the drums cease to be, leaving you suspended before the drop (which never comes) where you are becoming again the self that you lost, restoring of the being that you have never been, just cooling, not quite dancing, doing a little half-formed two-step, in heaven, in the VIP, on the block; right before you jump off the porch, time slows down and comes imperceptibly close to stopping entirely.
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